


The Saltwater Game

by chess_boxing



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Illness, Sad Friends Just Need A Hug And A Nap, Self-Harm, Serial Killers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chess_boxing/pseuds/chess_boxing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyler and Josh meet by chance when they each decide to bury a body in the exact same place on the exact same night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Have you ever buried a body?

You probably haven’t, and that’s _not a bad thing_. The odds are slim. However, if you had, it might have offered some semblance of comfort to Josh Dun, who’s currently knee deep in gouged-out earth, dirt streaks thumbed through comic-book-blood red hair, sweat pinning his shirt to his back, shovel working blisters into his palms. He’s twitching at every small noise in the forest, red-painted eyes wildly flicking up to check between the black-on-black columns of the trees. His car’s parked way back down the track. He’s working by scraps of moonlight, and then he hears the rumble of an approaching engine.

Nobody passes through this way en route to someplace else. _Nobody_.

It’s the worst panic he’s felt all day, and the significance of this cannot be overstated. The creeping glow of headlights swings around like a searchlight and slows; he knows he’s been seen. His eyes dart left, to the dark and slumped-up heap on the floor, lumpy and soft amongst harsh tree roots and dry leaves. Whoever’s riding in the pickup truck kills the engine but leaves the lights running, and then the soft thuds of footfalls send leaves skittering around the muddy tires.

Although his senses are on full alert, he’s kinda drunk – there’s no denying that; and in his defence, okay, you don’t get through a night like this sober – and Josh warily watches the stranger stalking closer, painfully aware of the shovel’s idle weight in his hands. Then he notices what the _silhouette_ is holding. It’s _another fucking shovel_.

“You can’t dig here,” he says, stupidly. It kinda slurs.

This other guy doesn’t say anything, but close up, he looks way less freaked out and wary than Josh reckons he does himself right now. With a quick spiking movement, the stranger spears his shovel in the dirt and heads back to his truck. It sticks out upright, wonky, a skinny weird headstone. The dude disappears behind the headlamp glare and Josh hears him dragging shit about in the back, and then there’s a soft _flump_ , and then Josh watches him drag this six-foot, wrapped-up heap back into the light.

“Oh my god,” he says, dragging one hand across his face, because what the fuck else do you say. _What else_. Jesus fucking Christ, only he could pick a spot to dump a body and come across some other asshole with the _exact same fucking notion_. “Seriously, dude, you can’t – you’re gonna have to carry on up the track.” He steps out of the admittedly pathetic foot-and-a-half trench that he’s already carved out so far. He wants the extra height.

“Dirt’s looser here,” the stranger says, real even, like he’s not dragging a body over tree roots at two in the morning. His voice is soft.

Josh just stares. “Uh. Yeah, man. I know. I was here first.”

There’s this slight squelch behind the thud when the stranger drops the wrapped up body, and Josh’s face twitches. The other guy hoists his shovel back out of the ground and treads softly closer, narrowing the space between them. Up close, he looks sorta normal – maybe kinda small, drowning in a hoodie – and Josh can’t tell if that’s a relief or double-creepy. He stops. They’re both standing either side of Josh’s grave-in-progress. Briefly, Josh wonders if they’re about to duel with shovels. He can’t believe that this is his life.

“This is where I’m digging,” the stranger says. “You want your privacy, that’s fine by me. Plenty of forest to go around.”

Josh considers that. He’s so uncomfortable that he feels like his spine is actually trying to escape the skin on his back, but what the fuck, he’s not packing up and starting over somewhere else. He’s like, yeah, a foot and a half deep, and that’s – what, a quarter of the way in? Yeah. A quarter. At this rate he won’t be home till seven, and god, he’s never craved his shower and his bed this hard in his _life_. Oh. And he’s drunk. So yeah. Whatever. It’s not like the night can get any more fucked.

“Okay, dude.” He sticks out his hand over the grave. “Josh.”

Their hands clasp; the other guy’s wearing gloves. “Tyler. Wanna compare corpses?”

It’s like Josh feels ice traveling up his extended hand. He kind of just wants to start screaming. Instead, he breaks contact and bends to snag his bottle of bourbon from its place in the dirt; he takes the longest drink he thinks he can get away with.

“Nah, you’re good,” he mutters after swallowing, the words a half-laugh. Josh gets back to sticking his shovel in the earth – jamming deep, then repeating the twist and tug that adds to the dirt pile beside the grave. Tyler doesn’t seem offended. He marks out his plot, adjacent, and stabs the tip of his shovel into the ground: first of many.

Josh stares at his own shovel as it eats up the ground and leaves it gaping, his thoughts pouring with stress and his breathing laboured. Tyler’s silhouette interrupts the headlights with every lunge, and it’s casting flashing, rhythmic shadows. He works grimly and methodically. Like a machine. Josh watches the subtle strength in his arms; tries to gauge whether he’s a threat. There are muscles hiding, though hiding well. He swallows, drags a grimy hand through his hair, and fixes his eyes back into his own grave for the next couple of hours.

Well past halfway in, he’s starting to worry about how he’s gonna climb out again once he finishes. The dirt walls are oppressive and block the lights from Tyler’s truck. Josh tugs his shirt over his head and tosses it over the edge, collapsing back against the grave’s wall for a moment and taking a long drink of bourbon, like it’ll quench his thirst, or whatever. Fuck. He wishes he’d brought water.

The break gives him a moment to look about while his chest heaves and his throat burns on its way back to normal. Tyler’s body – the dead one, not his own – is wrapped in some kind of waterproof sheet which glitters with moisture in the headlights; it looks like a tarp, or something. Josh glances at the heap beside his own grave. It’s swaddled in bedsheets. There isn’t really any blood, but the little there is has spotted and blossomed across the mid-grey cotton, and he’s been trying to avoid touching those bits when he drags the thing around. It’s got ‘poorly planned body disposal’ written all over it – especially next to Tyler, whose setup resembles that of a _pro_. Josh shivers, cold-sweat-hot-skin, and carries on digging. His hands send tremors through the shovel now and then, which he wants to blame on muscle fatigue, but totally knows he can’t.

Okay. He’s five feet deep, and his breathing sounds loud in his own ears. Chucking the dirt out over the top is getting tricky. He doesn’t notice Tyler standing just behind him, the stranger’s dark figure looming over the depths of Josh’s grave. Tyler just watches the planes of Josh’s back shifting as he works, and thinks about how beautiful they’d look spread out, nailed down, blood-slick.

“You’re kinda way past finished there,” he says after a couple of minutes, and the muscles in Josh’s back jump with his twitch of surprise.

“Holy shit, don’t creep up on me like that, man.”

“Sorry.”

Josh peers up suspiciously at the polite apology. “Um. Good.”

Tyler crouches down into a relaxed squat. “You, uh… want a hand getting out?”

Glancing back and forth between the crumbly, dirt-chunk edges of the pit, Josh feels his stomach swoop. The answer is _definitely_. “I’ll be done in a bit?” he offers.

“It’s hardly gotta be churchyard standard,” Tyler tells him. The way the words come out, it kinda sounds like he’s rolling his eyes, too, though Josh can’t really see well enough to check. One of those gloved hands extends down into the grave and that’s it – fine, Josh is sold, he _quits_ – and he hangs on tight, swings the shovel out onto the surface, and struggles to pull himself out of the pit. Their arms strain. When Josh’s stomach flops onto the earth, caking his sweat-drenched skin in dirt, Tyler stumbles back a couple of paces.

Dragging the body the last few feet to the grave, Josh’s guts tighten up as he looks down into its final resting place. It’s kinda grim. He’s fucking sure of one thing, after this; he’s getting cremated. He heaves the corpse over the edge, bedsheets and all, and shuts his eyes against the sickening, slightly wet _crack_ that it makes as it collides with the bottom of the grave. _Rest in peace, dude._

Wow. He must be _wasted._ He can’t wait to sober up and see what kind of impact this entire fucking shitshow is going to have on his already _hilariously_ fragile mental health. He briefly wonders if suicide watch does loyalty cards.

Tyler’s already filling in his own grave, but Josh can’t summon the emotional energy to feel properly impressed – or jealous – at his efficiency. Wearily taking the shovel back up, he watches each little loose, dry heap of dirt slowly obscure the sad, swaddled heap below as he works, and he hopes that’s how it’s going to work in his mind, too.

“You need a lift anywhere?” Tyler calls over when he finishes.

He almost lets out a quick, faintly hysterical noise at the thought of climbing into this fucking psychopath’s truck and exchanging small talk on the ride back into town. “Nah, it’s cool, I’m parked down the way.”

“Okay.” He’s approaching, and Josh tenses and quits shovelling, ready to fight or flight or maybe shit himself or something, but Tyler just kinda claps him on the shoulder and fixes him with this really sincere, considerate look. “Take care of yourself tonight, dude. You seem really spooked. Must’ve been a pretty screwed up day.”

“You’ve no idea,” he exhales, hard, and then catches himself. “Uh. Well. Unless, you know. You probably do. Hah.”

Tyler wipes a blackish smear from his cheek with a knuckle. In the dark, Josh can’t tell if it’s blood or dirt.

“I hope everything works out for you, Josh,” he says – and that’s it, he’s off, climbing into his truck and kicking it into gear. The headlights swing away and Josh watches the glow recede, fade, flicker, and finally disappear between the trees. After its glare, the moonlight is nowhere near enough to comfortably see by, but he’s finally, thankfully, _gloriously_ finished by the time the sky is turning the midnight-blue that warns of the dawn. Exhausted and aching, he cracks his shoulders and turns to leave behind the scent of torn-up earth and blood-crusted bedsheets, dragging the shovel blade through the dirt behind his feet as he walks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at making friends!! but I have none in this fandom and would like to try? Say hi if you're feeling it. I'm always up for talking |-/


	2. Chapter 2

The second time they meet, it’s technically a coincidence, too, though Josh works evenings at a bar by the college campus. Admittedly, he’s never _not_ recognising vaguely familiar people. He practically feels like the patron saint of coincidental meetings. As a result, this coincidence pales beside that of two people choosing to bury corpses in the exact same place on the exact same night, but it’s still a coincidence. Enough of one to creep him out, at least.

It’s also Hallowe’en – because of course it’s freaking Hallowe’en; it’s that kind of story – and easily more than half of the room are in costume. Josh has served so many masks. He’s given up carding tonight, that’s for sure. He also has to make drinks at a rate upwards of six a minute, so it’s only when the bar goes slightly sparse and quiet that he glances into a pair of eyes through mask-slits and the recognition hits home.

He freezes, barely perceptibly. He should definitely not, never, _never_ - _never-never_ invite the one witness to the _body he buried_ into his life. He wants that night scrubbed from his mind for good. But also: _Josh is chatty_. He works a bar and he’s pretty good at it, when he’s in the right frame of mind. He cocks his head, braces his palms on the counter, and the automatic, friendly grin has flicked up before his brain even has time to catch up.

“Hey, uh – Tyler, right?”

The eyes behind the mask sort of flash a little. Yeah! Shit! It’s definitely Tyler. Josh’s brain has caught up. It is screaming.

“Hi. Josh? Josh. Angry Orchard, please.”

Josh ducks to the fridge behind the bar for a bottle, relieved at the distraction. When he hands it over with an iced glass and a straw, cold condensation from the bottle chills his fingers, and he resists the urge to wipe it across his face. It’d risk his zombie paint.

“So, uh,” he starts, because Tyler’s not moving and there’s a lull in customers. He falls back on his go-to conversation starter of the night. “What’re you dressed as?”

Tyler looks up and down his own body for a sec, like he’d forgotten it was there. His clothes aren’t particularly remarkable, but his head’s totally obscured by a homemade white balaclava, the eyes and mouth torn out with kitchen scissors, then worn soft and frayed from dozens of machine washes. He looks Josh right in the eye, pokes the straw of his drink through the mouth-hole, and takes a drink before answering, totally evenly:

“I’m a serial killer.”

And Josh laughs.

He can’t help it. It’s a proper, in-your-guts, punched-out laugh, and the way it takes him by surprise – because he’s clearly lost his fucking mind – only makes it _funnier_. Through the eye-holes of the mask, Tyler’s eyes crinkle up and it sets him off, too. He looks so _not psychopathic_ , and Josh realises maybe that’s because it’s the first time he’s seen a smile on his face. Along the bar, a kid with at least three trash bags Scotch-taped to his body – hard to say what he’s dressed as – sidles up and Josh apologises, doing his best to straighten his mouth out so that he can take the order.

Tyler arrived with a large crowd which doesn’t seem to miss him, so instead he hangs about like an ill omen, though quite a companionable one. Their halting, tentative small-talk smooths out, turning easy and eccentric by the end of the night, so Josh offers to lock up. By 2AM, he’s pouring out two whiskeys and sitting on the fun side of the bar for a change. The place is deserted, and the walls make a pleasing, hollow sound when their glasses _clink_ together.

The zombie and the serial killer drink in sync and watch each other swallow, the air going quiet and taut. Hanging his head, Josh lets out a slightly bitter laugh. When he grins, his teeth match up perfectly with the ones painted on one cheek; it’s a make-up job done by Mark, who works the same bar alongside his FX degree. Hallowe’en’s his favourite day of the year. Josh is deathly pale and strikingly red-eyed, his brows and cheekbones casting undead-grade shadows, and he’s got a proper gnarly, bloody jaw injury sculpted from latex scraps.

“I must be insane,” he says. “No offence, dude, but I’m _pretty_ sure that – in the horror film script that is my life – drinking in a deserted bar with a murderous stranger is the scene that happens, like, the page before I get killed off.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Tyler admits, pushing the mask back off his face, folding it in half, and placing it on the bar, real neat. His movements are all awkward and soft, his limbs loose but drawn up to his body, as though hung from lazy puppet strings. His fingertips tremble on each surface that they map out.  Josh is struck – again – by how _normal_ he looks, but there’s a chewed-lip, brown-eyed paranoia at work there, too. This guy’s a mess. “How come you’re not trusting your instincts?”

_It’s too quiet at home._ _I’m feeling self-destructive. I wouldn’t mind being tomorrow’s headline._ “I’m curious and also stupid,” he says instead, that zombie grin back in place.

“Well, It’s nice,” Tyler says. His voice is soft and warm, but kinda creaky and brittle, too, all at once. He twitches and his hands curl in on themselves as though wilting; while the delicate movement barely lasts, Josh is left with the impression of something fragile and shatter-sharp. “I don’t get out much. Just sorta tag along with big groups when I do. It’s cool, I like my alone time, but, yeah. How d’you mean, curious?”

It’s upfront and transparent, and Josh thinks he can roll with that. “You kill people.”

“We’re both in _that_ boat.”

“Like, plural,” Josh says, his voice suddenly dropping low with stress. He talks with his hands, chopping at the air between them. “I nearly got stuck down my own grave. You had a _tarp,_ and stuff. That whole night was this fucked-up, bizarre, nightmarish series of mistakes. Not much of a plan behind it. You, though,” he shivers a little, taking a drink, “you know what you’re doing. I bet you know all kinds of messed up murder trivia. I bet you know how long it takes for someone to pass out after a slit throat.”

“Anywhere up to thirty seconds.”

“Jesus Christ.”

The way he says it – half aghast, half resigned, but not actually repulsed – makes Tyler laugh, those endearingly gentle, syrup-brown eyes crinkling back up again, and the tension which was starting to settle around Josh’s shoulders eases off a little. It’s that _normal_ thing again. Cold-blooded killers don’t do genuine little laughs like that. Not on TV, anyway.

“So,” he begins, spreading his hands out on the bar, palms upturned. If they’re going to talk, let’s do it properly. He’s open. “What do you do for a living, Tyler the Serial Killer?”

“I work at that huge Walmart just outside town,” Tyler says, “you know. When I’m not killing people.”

“Or dumping bodies,” Josh offers.

“Dodging psychotic episodes.”

“Nice.” Josh kinda knows the Walmart – this sprawling, green glow squatting alongside the interstate – because it stays open twenty-four hours. When he lays awake biting his lips and his nails for long enough that his guts ache from being horizontal, he drags himself out to his beat-up car to wander up and down superstore aisles, basically still in his pajamas, just to shut his mind up. He far prefers the Target, though – there’s a Pizza Hut – so he only really checks out the Walmart when he actually needs to pick things up from there. Which always feels kinda like a win; like he’s successfully integrated his mental breakdown with his grocery shop. He debating whether to reveal as much when Tyler continues and totally shatters any anxiety he’d had about over-sharing.

“It’s just stacking shelves. It suits me, real quiet, nice and simple. My therapist said it was important for me to have something regular to go to. I have bad insomnia and dealing with a lot of customers freaks me out, so I picked up a night shift, which is perfect. Not that she – my therapist – thinks so. But. Whatever.” The pink-chewed curve of his lower lip disappears between his teeth. “Baby steps, you know?”

Something about the revelation inspires sympathy in Josh. He wants to share. He wants this twisted, terrifying ruin of a man to understand that they occupy cells within the same prison. “I feel that,” he nods, “I’ve been in and out of screwed-up phases as long as I can remember. To be honest, I should take more hours, but everything gets way worse every time I try. Maybe I should go back, get an appointment with my old therapist. I nearly quit the whole job last week, you know – after the forest.”

He trails off fast, mouth snapping shut both at the bizarre intimacy of the conversation, and the direction in which it’s swinging.

“Look, my curiosity’s not holding off any longer,” Tyler says, his gaze sharp, like sugar crystals. “You don’t strike me as the killing type. Whose body was that? Who’d you kill?”

He expected the question to set off a terrified ringing in his ears, but instead, there’s just this cold, numb silence, and a wide, deserted room, and that _look_. Josh empties his drink to dodge it all for a moment, and then stares into its cut-glass base as he opens his mouth.

“It was a joke,” he begins, like that’ll take the sting off. “I was wasted,” he adds, like that’ll make him innocent. Both are piss poor excuses, and he feels dumb as shit for even making the effort. “There was a party that night, and I did something – well, a group of us – we did something bad. We didn’t mean him to die. He didn’t deserve it.”

After that, he just sort of stops speaking. He’s not having a panic attack or anything, his lips just haven’t the will to go any further. Or his ears haven’t the will to hear it. Whichever.

“Stop,” Tyler says, quietly. “It’s fine. Don’t torture yourself.”

Josh laughs a little. It comes out a bit shaky and he resents that, but the moment feels good anyway. Progressive. He’s not had a chance to talk about what he’s seen, and now – bizarrely – he’s stumbled upon somebody who probably understands perfectly. He and Tyler – they’ve already got enough life-destroying blackmail material on each other that it binds them. Like trust, but twisted. Better.

“Bleach; he drank bleach.”

“Nasty,” Tyler replies – curiously, like a motorist passing a car crash.

“And some detergent. Leftover chemicals, whatever we’d found in a closet.”

He remembers the thick slew of bleach landing in that red cup; industrial, not household, so that one glut is all they need before a chorus goes up, ‘ _that’s enough’,_ followed by someone waving a hand frantically, ‘ _do the limescale stuff next’,_ and Josh is laughing. They’re all laughing. Nobody _dies_ playing the Saltwater Game. It’s a dumbass drinking game; a freshman initiation trial held at the late-September party, traditionally thrown in an out-of-town abandoned warehouse by seniors and graduates looking for a laugh. The rules are simple; the new kids pick from a deck of playing cards. Each card has a twin taped to the underside of a drink. You draw a card, you take the corresponding cup. The whole thing’s named after the first and original ‘Ace of Spades’ – the card-and-drink combo that no one wants to pick. Nowadays, there’s still always a cup of saltwater in there somewhere – it’s tradition – but the pouring of the Ace of Spades has scaled up in sadism, from vinegar and raw egg whites to cooking oil, neat absinthe, diluted windscreen wash, whatever. In all honesty, it’s not as crazy as it sounds – whoever picks the particularly evil bleach cocktail will take one sip, and then the plan is for someone to step in and call it off. Frankly, they’ll get off easy; Josh remembers picking the Ace of Spades in his own Saltwater Game – because, as we’ve established, he’s the unluckiest person on the planet – and no one bailed _him_ out as he chugged an entire red cup of Tabasco. Despite puking up a few hours later, he still didn’t shit right for a week.

“Every time I try to sleep, I just keep seeing it,” he tells Tyler, back in the bar, blinking away the memory.

“The burns?”

“And the bubbles,” he adds, detached, like an automaton. “Like… pink bubbles just _streaming_ out of his mouth and his nose. I keep thinking about the pink.”

“They were pink?”

“Yeah, from his throat. All eaten up. And his gums.”

“Did his lips, like, swell up? Like blisters?

Josh questions him with his eyes; Tyler shrugs one shoulder.

“I look a lot of stuff up online,” he explains, unashamed.

“Same. I didn’t use to, but now, I keep watching… like, videos of other people doing it,” Josh admits, his voice at its quietest yet.

“That’s okay.”

His head shakes. “It’s not. I can’t stop. So. There you go, that’s who I killed. I fucked up,” he offers, palms splayed again. “And now I can’t sleep, and all I can see is his messed up face, and I keep looking up chemical burn deaths online. You know the worst thing? To start with, I kept telling myself that looking at it was therapeutic, you know, like – like when a song gets stuck in your head, and you gotta play it to wash it out? Except now, I think, actually, part of me just _likes_ watching them. I killed somebody innocent and I deserve to die for it, and now I’m watching and re-watching for _entertainment_.”

He almost feels like a cheat, the way Tyler takes it in without flinching, without leaving, without giving him a sideways look, like, _dude, that’s fucked up._ He doesn’t deserve that understanding, much less exoneration.

“You’re doing what you have to do.” It’s a statement so calm and unembellished that Josh could easily take it as plain, objective fact. “You didn’t choose this. It just _is_.”

Josh just looks uneasy, so Tyler continues.

“I was in a car with my friends about a year ago, on the way to a hospital – which, looking back, is pretty ironic. This other car smashed into us out of nowhere and everyone in the car with me was killed.”

“Jesus,” Josh breathes out.

“I’m not supposed to be alive, Josh. I owe everything a man can owe.”

He swallows; he imagines for a moment how the world looks from Tyler’s shoes, and considers the thoughts which probably serve as insomnia fuel. “How are you gonna pay it back?”

“Not suicide.” Tyler’s eyes search the polished wooden surface of the bar for a moment. “Not anymore. But there’s no way around it. When death is cheated, she can only be repaid in souls. And if she won’t take mine, I’ll give her every son of a bitch who set that night in motion,” he says, his voice catching in the back of his throat like fresh snow underfoot. “I wrote a list, and she will know them by name.”

Josh’s eyes are slightly wide. He wishes he hadn’t finished his drink so quickly; he wants an excuse to move, to disturb the air and shake away the new, sharp, toxic weight that it suddenly holds. He’s just parted his lips to say something – _anything_ – when Tyler speaks again.

“Hey, dude, can we trade numbers? I kinda like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou so much to those who've read, and left comments/kudos already?! u guys are great x


	3. Chapter 3

_(05:07:16) Josh: Testing_

_(05:07:22) Josh: (it's josh)_

_(05:08:40) Tyler: Reading you loud & clear_

_(09:20:11) Tyler: Look I know this is probably overstepping some kind of line but I can't sleep and I found this especially gross chemical burn photo album and it made me think of you: bit.ly/1TOmens_

_(09:20:32) Tyler: I hope you had a good night and slept ok._

_(09:32:10) Josh: Holy fuck you are the Weirdest friend I've ever made_

_(09:34:52) Josh: though I have to admit….. Photos appreciated… especially the post-surgery ones because that’s actually incredible_

_(09:35:16) Tyler: Right. I'm always amazed. Plastic surgeons are wizards_

_(09:40:44) Josh: Check this out this is sick: bit.ly/1UewbEx_

_(09:41:46) Tyler: I can't believe I’ve met someone who will voluntarily recommend me facial reconstruction videos_

_(09:52:57) Tyler: Amazing_

_(09:53:40) Josh: You’re welcome there’s a WHOLE site bit.ly/1Y0bkdY_

_(09:56:38) Tyler: I love this one bit.ly/1TOmjaG_

_(10:00:04) Josh: !!!! bit.ly/1XKpTSw_

_(10:07:59) Josh: bit.ly/1O0e6xl_

_(10:10:20) Josh: bit.ly/1sXTfSo last one I swear. I gotta go to work_

_(10:12:45) Tyler: Lame. enjoy. I’ll be here fantasising about the parallel universe where i’m a plastic surgeon instead of a talentless wreck bit.ly/1TSDULB_

_(10:13:32) Josh: dude :( that's not true. I bet u could train as one_

_(10:15:28) Tyler: I looked it up once! No chance though. shaky hands :(_

_(10:15:34) Tyler: I mean_

_(10:16:08) Tyler: I was eating spaghetti earlier and dropped my fork when it was halfway between the plate & my face_

_(10:16:17) Tyler: With pasta still wrapped around it and sauce and stuff_

_(10:16:48) Tyler: Its still lying on the floor actually I need to clean it but I am tired and today is horrible and the world is against me so I gave up and ate 6 reeses cups instead_

_(10:17:22) Tyler: would YOU want ME reconstructing your face?_

_(10:23:43) Josh: yeah just clearly don’t use a fork_

_(10:24:36) Josh: never say never dude. Give urself a chance, u could be a kickass surgeon one day. Please take care of yrself. get some food and water :) you might feel better?_

_(10:24:51) Josh: I really gtg! Catch u later_

_(10:25:18) Tyler: thanks for the chat it was nice :)_

_(10:25:25) Tyler: have a good shift!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologise, this is so short, i'll get a proper chapter up in a couple days! i hope you're all very well today x


	4. Chapter 4

He’s in too deep, he thinks, tugging his hood up over his beanie and balling his hands into the pockets as he leaves his car. It’s almost the only one in that massive Walmart parking lot; the cars of his fellow 3AM shoppers cut lonesome shapes upon the grid of painted lines, caught on the fringes of streetlamp spotlights. Josh’s face and limbs feel numb as he walks. As he crosses the threshold, the blast of warm air barely registers. He’s half-surprised the automatic doors open for him at all.

He should totally be walking off this dissociative episode at the Target right now, but his hollowed-out, dry-leaf insides have him reaching for stupid, terrible, bad-bad-bad decisions, so instead he’s gonna see if Tyler’s working a shift. Maybe that’s weird. Maybe he should’ve just texted, like a normal person. Luckily, he’s pretty confident that whatever kind of friendship he and Tyler are cultivating, it isn’t normal.

It’s not long before Josh clocks Tyler in bread and baked goods – unloading bagels from a cage and stacking them on the empty shelves – and, shit, that’s a weird sight, seeing the guy in a fucking _Walmart uniform_. The deep blue button-up drowns him, the short sleeves only an inch or two shy of his elbows. As Josh approaches, still feeling so numb that he’s not sure how to say hello, he’s surprised to notice a cipher-like script of sharp black shapes on one forearm, and tattooed black bands around the slim, hard shapes of the joints in the other. They accentuate the movements of his arms as he stretches, bends, empties the cage out. It’s literally the only thing about his appearance that hints at any existence other than Most Normal Guy On Planet.

“You look terrible, dude.”

Cool, Tyler’s initiated the conversation for him. Josh doesn’t doubt him, either. He’s aware that there are shadows under his aching eyes, and his that hair’s not messy in a cool way anymore, and that all the dark clothing isn’t helping. His skin feels washed out and ashen. Translucent, like everyone else can see right through to all the gross stuff inside.

“I couldn’t sleep and I’m having a shit night,” he says with neither smile nor pretence. “I needed to get out of my flat.”

Nodding evenly, and totally unphased, Tyler stacks away the last pack in his hands and steps closer to properly take in the glazed over expression – evidence of the sort of exhaustion that can keep a person awake for days.

“Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

“Do you want to… help me stack the shelves?”

Josh thinks. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Tyler says, and guides him by the shoulder to the cage, to show what needs to be shelved. That touch on his shoulder and the calm instructions anchor Josh. They give his thoughts something to hang onto. He pulls down his hood and unclenches his hands from his pockets.

They work side by side in total quiet, save for the strained, thin sounds of pop music playing over the distant ceiling speakers. The unnatural, slightly yellowed light means it could be midday. It’s hardly challenging work, but Tyler breaks it down as simple as possible, pre-stacking anything Josh needs to handle in a pile at the foot of their designated shelf, so that all he needs to do is move them from one place to the next, nice and neat, rinse and repeat. When the cage runs dry then Tyler brings out another. Sometimes they switch aisle. Cereal boxes, soda crackers, pop tarts, mustard, candles, video games. Shelving big bags of chicken nuggets in the frozen section, Josh realises that the ice is biting his fingertips, and that the cold mist rising from the freezers is chilling the skin on his face. He’s surfacing.

A short, uniformed man with a warm but worn-out face interrupts shortly afterwards to tell Tyler that he can take his break now, but then he eyes Josh, who’s stopped methodically pushing gallon-tubs of ice cream to the very back of the freezer to listen.

“Can I help you?”

“This is my friend, Josh,” Tyler says. Josh looks across at him while he explains. There’s something in the delivery of that statement – _this is my friend_ – that carries weight, and it occurs to him that this isn’t something Tyler says very often. “He’s had some bad news and just wants something to take his mind off things for a few hours. Is it okay if he helps me out?”

The supervisor – his nametag says Hassan – looks to Josh. He feels like he should speak, too. “It’s true, I just really wanna stack some boxes, sir,” he says.

“What kind of bad news, son?”

It’s on his mind so often that he says it without thinking. “Someone I knew was killed,” he answers, and he catches Tyler closely watching his face as he speaks. “A friend.”

Hassan pauses. “Sorry to hear that. If – that is, I mean to say, if you really just want to sort the shelves, then sure, buddy. I’m not gonna stop you. Anything he does is your responsibility though, Tyler, you got that?”

“Got it.” Tyler smiles his best professional smile.

They’re left alone once more, and slip easily back into that quiet, clockwork synergy. By the time that the shift is coming to a close, Josh can see slivers of rich blue between the aisles, out past the checkout. The sun’s rising.

“Well, that’s it,” Tyler says with a tired but satisfied roll of his shoulders. His spine cracks all the way down, _pop, pop, pop_. “I just gotta get my bag from the office. I guess I’ll see you around next time you have some kind of emotional crisis.”

Josh shifts uneasily. Of course, he feels better – almost like when he finishes a bar shift, like he could quite happily drive home, crash into bed and pass out – but the pace here, the silent companionship, the distractions, have been real nice. Tyler notices his discomfort immediately. _Immediately_. Like the guy’s a fucking mind reader.

“Unless you wanna come back to mine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thankyou for reading, friends |-/


	5. Chapter 5

“I sedate them first,” Tyler murmurs. He’s curled up at one end of a sagging couch, limbs drawn as tight as his body will comfortably allow, like he’s anxious of taking up space even within his own two-room apartment. Josh should feel awkward – as though it’s _his_ presence which has Tyler folding up like black paper origami – but he gets the impression that he sits the exact same when the room is empty, too. There’s no kind way to put it: the apartment is a tip. Sure, Josh’s is pretty bad too, but at least he makes an effort whenever he finds the emotional energy. Tyler’s kitchen sink is buried in a tower of dishes so intimidating that he’s _literally_ quit and started eating off paper plates; Josh can see the half-empty pack of them stacked atop the fridge. An art print hangs above Tyler's bowed head. It’s of an angel – the proper, horrifying, Biblical type; a seraph with six wings and more eyes than Josh wants to count.

“I used to be on an antipsychotic called chlorpromazine,” Tyler continues, "which always left me zoned out and I hated that. Still so paranoid, but totally useless. Disoriented, and really weak, like – even moving, or eating, or getting up to take a leak was too much effort to consider. Except you’d still be technically quite conscious. On bad nights, I realised I could drink a little bit, and then it would just shut me right down. Just for a night, just so I could quit thinking about how _defenceless_ I’d be if somebody broke in, or _‘the voices’_ got me, you know?” He draws sarcasm marks around _‘the voices’_ ; aware of the cliché, using it anyway. Josh can’t tell if it’s a joke. “So that’s where the idea came from. I stopped taking my injections the day I drew up my kill list and stored up the ampoules in a box under my bed. Then I needed alcohol to mix with it; just straight up vodka, distilled through a reflux column in the bathroom, which pushes it up to about ninety percent.” Tyler’s hands sketch out the motions just above his lap in a series of twitches and aborted gestures. “About five mils of the alcohol and another five of the chlorpromazine does the job for an adult with an average BMI. I draw up a few ten mil syringes – in case I need backups – and then I break in real quiet while they’re asleep. I've had nurses show me how to self-inject, very quick, just a little jab, so they sleep right through it. After about ten minutes I can do whatever I like without much protest. They’re usually kind of awake. I like to make it quick,” he adds, anxiously, ducking his head a little and flinching as he imagines Josh’s disgust burn his cheek, like radiation drifting across the couch cushions between them. “I don't like to draw it out. It’s not my place to punish. I wish I could get my hands on some decent opioids; heroin, even. Make the end as bearable as possible.”

There’s a long quietness while they both stare at the opposite wall. “Why aren’t you in med school?” Josh eventually asks, and Tyler looks down to his curled-up feet and half-laughs.

“I wish. Another life, maybe.”

Conflicted sympathy wells up in Josh, uncomfortable but warm. He also notes that he’s no longer frightened of Tyler. There’s a strict specificity to the devastation he plans to wreak, and Josh senses that he himself lies far beyond its parameters. He senses vulnerability and genuine kindness. He senses something else, too – security and loyalty, rapidly creeping up in the gaps between them, like sped-up footage of seedlings in spring.

“And you’ve… uh… done them all like that?”

“Most,” Tyler answers. “The first was different. The driver of the car that hit ours turned out to be wasted at the time – drugs, not drink. Just came from a party. He ended up on life support which I sabotaged – I didn’t really plan to, but I visited the hospital just to torture myself, I guess, and there he was, nobody watching, nobody expecting him to pull through. The second time, though, I injected her and then arranged the body – like a fake suicide, you know. Slit wrists in a bath. Another college kid statistic.” Tyler twitches. “She had a history; nobody looked twice. The third and fourth, I just straight-up went for the throat once they were sedated, and buried them myself. Quicker. Cleaner.”

He looks drained, talking about it. Josh understands, in an unexpected flash, how misplaced his original feelings of envy had been towards Tyler’s detached, efficient capacity to kill and bury. It had felt fucked up – unfair, even – that Josh had been cursed to spend every night since that one awake, agonising and regretting, while he’d assumed Tyler spent them remorseless and unshaken. Invincible. On the contrary; the more he sees, the more he understands that Tyler’s survivor’s guilt has him captive to a twisted and deluded contract, and equally helpless.

“The only way you think you’ll ever live a normal life is by finishing the list,” he realises, aloud.

“That’s about the sum of it, yeah.”

“What if you stopped?”

“Can’t.” Tyler’s teeth sink into his lip. “Not allowed, it won’t let me.”

Not much you can say to that, Josh thinks. “Do you like it?”

“There’s power. I’m not gonna deny that – there’s power and, oh, it’s beautiful. But I hate it,” Tyler breathes out, eyelashes fluttering closed. His arms tighten up around his knees like a spider curling up to die. “Hate it, hate it so much. But it’s the only way to finish everything. If I can just do this, just get through all the people on the list, it’ll be over. That’s all I want. It’ll all be over.”

Josh considers that and, shit, he’s definitely going to hell, because he thinks he gets it. If something as straightforward as a to-do list could set him on a path to redemption, he’d give it some serious consideration. Last night he stared at his reflection through the shower screen until the water ran cold long enough to turn his lips blue. He’ll do anything. He just wants it to be over.

“How many?”

“Hm?” Tyler uncurls slightly to look at him.

“On the list.”

“There’s – well, four down so far, and two to go. Important, those two. One of them handed this spiked drink to the driver. A _designated driver_ , man. Pretty messed up.”

“So, six in total?”

“Six,” Tyler sighs, watching his feet again, his jaw twitching where it tightens and relaxes. “Good number. Kinda poetic, huh? Like, scripture.”

Josh glances again to the painted seraph. It makes his stomach go cold. Its wings curl slightly like great talons, each of their bladed tips pointed inward, as though poised to swoop and snatch up the huddled figure beneath them. That night it appears in his nightmares. It waits behind his shoulders and strikes down everyone Josh makes eye contact with. He staggers around a busy mall with one arm slung across his eyes, yelling for everyone to stay away. A soft, tired, brittle voice tells him that it’s okay – and then his arm is being gently pried away from his face – and then the last thing Josh sees before he wakes up is kind, brown eyes bursting as iron-tipped feathers shoot them clean through the back of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

The pale wash of the TV screen at night bleaches the colour and the life from Josh’s apartment. He’s sat in the center of his couch, spaced out, too cold but too far gone to pull on a sweater or make dinner or take a leak. It’s a bad night. All he can smell is bleach and blood. He’s tried eating – soda crackers dipped in Nutella – and he’s tried a glass of water, and he’s jerked off, but nothing can shake off the dull, muted clouds in the space behind his eyes. _You deserve this,_ he thinks, in rare, lucid flashes. _For what you’ve done. You deserve to be dead._

He’s sober, which is his own stupid fault. Sometimes, his fingers twitch where his arms are crossed over his chest, and they leave crescents just stinging the skin of his arms before he relents and flexes them out. He’s got spare razors in the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink, just in case. He just knows that a few minutes and _slit-slit-slit-slit_ , he’ll surface for air, but _ugh,_ he knows that’s not the _right_ answer.

He sits in a pool of dark thoughts like that another hour, telling himself that he’ll stand up at the next commercial break, but then suddenly gets to his feet midway through the stupid home renovations show he’d been half-watching and throws a hoodie around his shoulders, tugs his sneakers on, plugs in his earphones and kicks his way out the door.

After the washed-out blue-grey of his walls, the saturated orange streetlight is an ugly sort of relief. Outside, it’s pouring with rain; real heavy, like stair rods, the kind Josh can feel the weight of in every drop that hits the top of his hood. The puddles buzz and vibrate with it. He ducks his head and cups a hand to light a cigarette. It’s a bad habit but sometimes the breathing clears his head – slow in, slow out, his lungs soaking in smoke, their every breath leaving evidence hanging in the air behind them. Definitely Alive.

Without much thought as to where he’s heading, Josh shoves his hands deep in his pockets and starts to walk. Quickly. Like he’s got somewhere better to be.

About two or three blocks in, cigarette extinguished, he pulls out his phone, cradles the screen, and taps out a message.

_(02:25:17) Josh: whats up friend. the bad thoughts are kicking my ass tonight. got any more messed up murder trivia for me??_

Josh bunches up his sleeve to wipe the screen free of raindrops; they come back immediately, and his sleeve’s sodden anyway. Tyler’s reply takes a while – when it does, he has to peer close to read it:

_(02:37:02) Tyler: You don’t need that. surprise for you. want me to pick u up?_

Yeah. Fuck it.

_(02:37:45) Josh: ok_

If he’s lucky, a bit of company will be exactly what he needs to pull out of this dive. And if he’s _really_ lucky, Tyler will just give up the whole friendly act, whip out an axe, bury it in his neck, and he’ll never have to do laundry or catch a bus or pay his rent ever again.

_(02:38:49) Tyler: outside the bar? twenty minutes._

That’s across town now, so Josh ducks his head and doubles his pace, taking shortcuts through the nasty alleys, and makes it within a semi-acceptable margin of lateness.

“Hey,” he says, clambering into Tyler’s pickup and tugging the door shut. He hasn’t spoken in over a day and the word’s a bit husky. Everything sounds hollow in his head now that the rain’s shut out. The radio’s on quiet, broadcasting the distorted, faint buzz of something grungy playing.

“Hey, Josh,” Tyler says, kinda soft. His eyes look soft, too. There’s zero percent pretence here; Josh is a wreck, and Tyler’s here to pick him up. He’s chewing gum; Josh can smell spearmint. “Lame weather, huh.”

Josh pulls his hood back – it lands against his back with a heavy, wet slap – and collapses back into the dry, warm seat. “Sure is.”

“You wanna go swimming?”

He flops his head sideways to look across, long and hard, a raindrop winding its way from a red strand of his hair and shivering down his cheek. He catches a flash of pale green as Tyler passes the gum to the other side of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. The other man’s stare is relentless.

 

|-/

 

The sports center’s been pre-broken, a back door jammed closed by a tilted chair to keep it from slamming back and forth in the storm. Their footsteps leave wet, crisp taps through the halls and the locker room, until they emerge in a vast, dark space. When Tyler throws the lights, the glassy, cerulean surface of the swimming pool is illuminated from below. Josh wants to smack it, throw a rock, throw _himself_ in, just to see that polished, virgin plane tremble and collapse.

Tyler strips as he walks up on the lip of the deep end, leaving black crumples behind his footprints like puddles, until he’s down to his boxers and his toes neatly meet the end of the tiles, like a kid at a diving lesson. He twists one-eighty so that his heels are at the edge instead, raises his eyes to the distant ceiling, and spreads his arms out so that he falls like a crucifix. The water shatters across his back – _slap_ , like it probably hurt – and as he sinks, the wave surges out to disturb the rest of the pool in a neat arc. It’s one of the most satisfying things Josh thinks he’s ever seen.

Peeling his own soaked clothes off takes way longer, but as soon as he’s free, he hurls himself in as hard as he can, like an impact might punch that numbness out of his skin if he can only make it violent enough. You know what? It kinda does. He stays under as long as possible, the breath all knocked out and leaking from his lips in bubbles, just letting his body drift and sink inch-by-inch down to the tiles.

They don’t even speak, really, even when they happen to meet each other on the surface at the same time. The real catharsis is in the eerie, turquoise silence beneath the water. It’s in the play of water across skin when Josh surges deeper, or it’s in the weird way the agitated surface filters the light, or it’s in the weightlessness. He twists and floats lazily, somersaulting once or twice without purpose. At one point, he peers through the water and sees Tyler way down at the bottom of the deep end, bubbles pouring from his open mouth from where he’s just fucking screaming at the wall. _Okay, pal._

Sometimes they watch each other hang limply in the water for as long as they can before someone needs to race for air. It probably looks distinctly creepy – both of their faces impassive, eyes blinkless, limbs suspended as though broken – but immense peace washes through Josh at the steady hold of their gazes. He’s heard the drowned and resuscitated speak about experiencing an intense calm and comfort at the point of unconsciousness, and he thinks he understands, as though he and Tyler are drowning together. Josh watches the other man’s small, slim body hang as though from invisible gallows, taking in his tattoos, or the way that the soft curve of Tyler’s lower lip trails bubbles from where his lungs are leaking. Tyler watches back. The only shred of colour that challenges the vast blue is the bright ink of Josh’s sleeve, and the scarlet streak of his hair. It drifts from his scalp like he’s bleeding out. Tyler thinks it’s beautiful.

They’re going to black out if they don’t draw the line somewhere, and back above the surface, they drag in a bunch of those big inflatable noodles to rest their elbows across, feet kicking lazily beneath the water as they float. Tyler’s tattoos gleam black where they’re drying; Josh’s hair is plastered to his skin, ruby-deep.

“I feel better.”

“I come here whenever I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Tyler says. “Always the same. Always helps. I think there’s something real special about it.”

“Never been caught?” Josh asks, slipping the lower half of his face under until it’s just the sharp brown of his eyes above the line, watching evenly.

“I don’t get caught.”

Josh laughs; it comes out as a splash of bubbles, and Tyler half-smiles at that. They keep watching each other. It almost feels as relaxed as before, when they were underwater; neither feels the compulsion to fill the silence. Both listen to the water rushing into the filters around the shallow end, or lapping at the edges of the pool.

“I’m scared.” Tyler tells Josh, resting his cheek on his forearm like a pillow, so that his head’s sideways.

“How come?”

“I didn’t know the names of the last two people on my list. It’s taken months to piece together everything that happened the night of the crash, Josh, _months,_ but today I found out who my number five is. I always get anxious when I know. One step closer. To the next kill. To the end of _all_ of this, eventually. Wish I could figure out who the last one was.”

“Oh yeah. The end of your six-step recovery program.” Josh lays his head on his arm too, mirror-image. Water drops slide from the ends of his hair to paint tracks sideways across his forehead. “What're you gonna do in your downtime after that?”

“Exactly.”

“Golf’s alright, I guess. We could join a club.”

It’s not really funny. There’s a four second pause where Tyler’s mouth quivers and tautens, and then he bursts out laughing, which sets Josh off. They can’t seem to stop, even when Josh inhales water. Tyler’s in spasms, clutching the inflatable for dear life. The hysterical, spluttering sounds ring out, lonely and desperate, through empty locker rooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't believe how lovely you guys are? eat something nice today. x


	7. Chapter 7

_(1 missed call from Tyler)_

_(08:04:24) Tyler: Josh_

_(08:04:31) Tyler: Jsh_

_(2 missed calls from Tyler)_

_(3 missed calls from Tyler)_

_(08:05:55) Tyler: Please wake up_

_(08:06:32) Tyler: dude The fancy patisserie flooded and they had to close super early. they had to give away everything they baked this morning. everything_

_(08:06:59) Tyler: i'm by that parking lot off 12th with 3 crates of expensive cakes that I cant pronounce the names of._

_(08:07:08) Josh: holy shit_

_(08:07:12) Tyler: I’m freaking out this is the best day of my life._

_(08:07:13) Josh: holy       shit_

_(08:07:35) Tyler: I also got the top 2 tiers of a wedding cake because water got to the bottom tier_

_(08:07:46) Tyler: do u want to come over and eat fancy baked goods until we pass out_

_(08:10:02) Josh: i’m in my car ok I’ll pick you up. Still in sleepwear sry. situation way 2 urgent for real clothes_

_(08:10:07) Josh: i am so happy that you chose to share this moment with me_

_(08:10:18) Josh: will be there in 10_


	8. Chapter 8

_(16:42:38) Josh: this little guy came to say hi on my way to do laundry, what’s his name???_

There’s an image attached. It’s a picture of a stray cat.

_(16:43:20) Tyler: Mr Clean_

_(16:43:25) Tyler: Eggman_

_(16:43: 33) Tyler: Heavy Artillery_

_(16:43:43) Tyler: Salty Boy_

_(16:43:48) Tyler: 60 Watt Bulb_

_(16:43:50) Josh: dude lmao_

_(16:44:03) Josh: Salty Boys the winner. look at his perfect feet!!!!!_

_(16:45:42) Tyler: a very high quality cat. thankyou. want company while you wait for the laundry?_

_(16:50:15) Josh: sure! it’s the one on 17th opposite subway_

_(16:50:38) Tyler: sick. Be right there :)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double-update because these are so short i felt bad. hope you had a good weekend!!


	9. Chapter 9

_(05:48:03) Tyler: I can’t sleep._

_(05:48:16) Tyler: If you could pick anything what would you have written on your grave stone_

_(05:48:16) Josh: same_

_(05:47:20) Josh: oh good one_

_(05:48:29) Josh: I’d get a famous name. so people walking around the cemetery could be like wow I didn’t know buddy holly was buried here_

_(05:48: 41) Tyler: Pretty good. I think I want “About damn time”_

_(05:49:29) Tyler: “Best nap of my life”_

_(05:50:02) Tyler: “Can we still hang”_

_(05:50:19) Tyler: “Turn around”_

_(05:50:25) Tyler: Or just “it’s all downhill from here pal”_

_(05:52:36) Tyler: Actually I would get your name and you could get mine so all our families were at the wrong graves? Classic prank_

_(05:53:49) Josh: feeling morbid tonight huh_

_(05:51:27) Tyler: Yeah, kinda sad, kinda spooky, kinda like I wanna be dead._

_(05:54:44) Josh: can I be serious for literally one second_

_(05:54:52) Josh: it might be weird_

_(05:55:01) Tyler: if you MUST._

_(05:55:06) Tyler: fire away_

_(05:58:23) Josh: I’ve been thinking and if you wanted? i would help with your list_

_(05:58:57) Josh: if you asked that is. no promising i’d be any good but i wouldn’t leave you hanging or turn you down_

_(05:59:49) Josh: it’s become important to me too_

_(06:04:12) Josh: say something dude I know youve read this_

_(06:06:31) Josh: tyler_

_(06:07:16) Josh: you’re freaking me out_

_(06:07:37) Josh: hey_

_(06:07:38) Tyler: I would do everything in my power not to involve you Josh_

_(06:07:42) Tyler: Everything_

_(06:07:47) Josh: I know i’m just saying_

_(06:08:00) Josh: if you NEEDED some kinda backup you’ve got to ignore my dumb guilt crisis and call me_

_(06:08:47) Tyler: OK exactly. what if it destroyed you._

_(06:09:06) Tyler: I can’t tell if you’re offering because you know it will, or because you know it won’t_

_(06:09:15) Tyler: i don’t want to find out the hard way._

_(06:09:28) Josh: i’m not even sure myself but_

_(06:09:30) Josh: it doesn’t matter_

_(06:09:34) Josh: you know? what if something went wrong?_

_(06:09:41) Josh: what if you got caught? What if things got THAT bad???_

_(06:09:48) Josh: what if something happened to you and I coudlnt help because u didn’t want me ‘’’’’involved’’’’_

_(06:09:51) Josh: I hope you never need to ask but i will always have your back_

_(06:10:07) Josh: You are my FRIEND ty. nothings more important_

_(06:11:11) Tyler: ok._

_(06:11:20) Tyler: no, You’re emotional._

_(06:11:25) Josh: lol_

_(06:11:39) Tyler: guess we’re in this together now._

_(06:11:46) Josh: guess we are_


	10. Chapter 10

People reel it out, don’t they, Josh muses. Like, a turn of phrase. _A friend you’d call in the dead of night to help you bury a body._

He doesn’t know how long you gotta know a person to achieve that tier of friendship, but here he is – tossing a shovel, a water bottle and a pair of gloves into the trunk of his car at midnight – so he guesses he and Tyler must’ve passed that milestone at some point.

_“Slow down, the line’s not very good,” Josh tries to say, getting to his feet and hovering around the window anxiously, in case it’ll boost the signal. It’s kinda difficult to tell whether or not Tyler’s voice is crackling and trembling from the interference, or from whatever’s just happened._

_“It went badly,” he says sharply, the words straining out. “Number five, it all went to hell. Please, meet me somewhere.”_

_Josh turns his back on the window and fists a hand in his hair, eyes flicking about his bedroom as though it holds solutions. “Are you okay? You sure as hell don’t sound okay.”_

_“In the woods,” he responds, then coughs. “Same place we met. I’m heading up now. I’ll be fine, seriously, I just don’t think I can dig.”_

_Josh shuts his eyes._

He drops a towel and what he reckons passes for a first aid kit into the passenger seat before turning the keys in the ignition. It’s basically a pack of band aids, a leftover tourniquet from a Hallowe’en costume which never actually came to pass, and a shitload of ibuprofen.

It’s not just that they share this weird murder-thing, or their taste in films, or their fucked-up, mental-illness-fuelled insomnia. He almost runs a red light, cursing beneath the sounds of squealing tires on tarmac as he pulls up right at the painted line, thumbs drumming anxiously on the top of the wheel as he wills it to go back to green. The phone conversation is on loop in his mind, as though he’ll be able to gauge the severity of the situation if he just replays it hard enough. Is Tyler emotionally stable? Are the police on their way? Josh keeps imagining him passed out. Limping. Coughing up blood. Bleeding all over his car seats in a sad little broken heap. Josh has thrown one of those travel sewing kits - the little ones that nice hotels give you - into the first aid bag. He really hopes he’s not going to have to use it; when he’s this anxious, he can barely thread a fucking needle.

His heart’s racing as his car lurches and bumps along the forest track. Tyler’s truck has its lights on and he swings the wheel toward their glow, clambering out before he’s even killed the engine and jogging to the open passenger window.

It’s not Tyler on the other side. It’s some dead dude with his neck rolled over at a weird angle, and there’s a ton of blood crusting and turning rusty-brown in his long, lank, heavy-metal hair. He’s resting on one of those tarps to keep the worst of it off the seat. Josh just stares at the guy blankly, vaguely registering that this is going to be one of the moments that he revisits in his nightmares for the next half a dozen years.

“Hey, Tyler, you _do_ look terrible,” he tells the corpse, and Tyler – who’s slumped against the driver’s door, pale and blood-slicked – strings out coughs of laughter, hauling himself upright with one arm.

“He walked in,” he says, hoarsely. His mask – the one from Hallowe'en – lies on the dashboard, the white fabric covered in dark, stiff blotches. “Roommate, maybe. Counting my blessings, though. Number five was all passed out in bed – already asleep when I arrived. Injected and everything. Never saw a thing. But I didn’t even hear this other one coming, Josh, he was just _there,_ and – fuck, I’m not-“

“Hey, easy,” Josh says, swallowing, hands spread; calming. He’s never really seen Tyler properly stressed _._ He doesn’t think he’s ever even heard him _swear_ before. “Where are you hurt, man? I got a couple things in the car; painkillers, band aids-“

“I don’t know, I don’t really know. He beat the shit out of me, he had a frying pan; it’s probably all bruises. Like, not as bad as it feels. It’ll be fine. He tried to strangle me though, man, and my neck still feels wrong.” Josh doesn’t doubt that; Tyler’s breathing sounds weird and thin. “That’s it. Sorry. For dragging you out here. I’m not, like, dying.”

“Dumbass, I don’t mind, I’m glad you called. Let me get the shovel and stuff,” he says, and darts back to his car, wrapping his zip-up hoodie tighter against the wintery air as he goes. When he returns, Tyler’s limping out ahead of the truck, pointing out a patch of the ground. His shadow in the headlights casts a sharp, hunched black shape against the leaf-thick earth.

“I think here,” he calls, coughing again. “To avoid the others.”

Josh sits him down on the ground with the water bottle and kneels opposite. Tipping a little water onto a corner of the towel, he takes a shot at wiping away some of the bloodiness. Tyler’s right; it's not too serious, once you get through to the skin underneath.

“You can probably pass it off as a mugging,” he remarks. Tyler just nods and takes a long drink. He’s shivering slightly.

Josh gets stuck into the soil after that. He works swiftly, stabbing the blade of the shovel down into the ground over and over until it starts to feel like progress. There’s not really enough room for Tyler to join in properly anyway, but after about an hour he unfolds himself from the ground and gets the other shovel from his truck, carefully scraping around the sides. Once or twice, Josh takes a breather and Tyler takes over for ten minutes, his movements slow and weak. The atmosphere’s taut and thick with anxiety. It smells like the blood, the earth, and the antiseptic that Tyler’s daubed into the splits in his skin.

By the time he’s sitting at the edge of a passable grave, Tyler’s frame is noticeably shaking from the cold, his hood up like a shroud. Josh humours his attempt haul him out of the pit, even though - if anything - his assistance is probably more hindrance than help. While he hauls the dead guy out of the passenger seat by his armpits, Tyler gingerly scoops up the ankles, helping to shuffle him towards the edge of the hole. As they’re about to toss him in, Tyler notices Josh giving the man’s lifeless face a lingering, curious look.

“Don’t think about it,” he warns. Josh nods; drops the body. It’s heavy and he still hates the noise it makes when it lands.

“How’d’you finish him off?” he asks, as they fill in the grave.

“I managed to lead us to the stairs. One big shove.” Tyler doesn’t sound proud. There’s something _off_ about this kill; it’s unclean, unplanned. It doesn’t fit the precarious code of ethics to which he subscribes. “I didn’t even think it’d work, but _crack_ , his head just _went_. I was kinda freaking out and I grabbed his frying pan and kept hitting, you know, in case he was just out cold. Threw it in the lake on the way here. The pan, that is. I’m so not a fighter,” he breathes out shakily. “And my blood, on the frying pan? It spattered about. You know, as I was swinging it. I scrubbed up whatever I could, found some toilet bleach, poured it over the rest. All down the walls, the carpet? Totally wrecked it all. I hope it's enough.”

“I don't know,” Josh says, honestly. “But I think so. I… hope so.”

Three hours flat since he arrived on the scene, and Josh is finished, loading the shovels up, with Tyler idly kicking leaves over the freshly dug earth. To make it look more natural, maybe. His limbs and fingers tremor. His head’s bowed to the ground, shoulders curled in as though under a great weight. His every movement gives the impression of a series of anxious, erratic twitches, rather than one of consciously controlled motion. Josh watches; chews his lip.

“You okay, dude?”

Tyler’s head lifts and he stares back into the headlights, looking utterly lost. His hands curl up into fists at his sides once or twice. Josh has never seen him look so vulnerable, or so damn small. He’s not sure if Tyler’s the hugging type - he knows plenty of people aren’t, and the last thing he wants is to make the dude any _more_ uncomfortable - so instead he approaches gradually, footsteps crunching in the leaves, until he can put one arm across those slumped shoulders and squeeze. Gently. Poor son of a bitch just had his ass handed to him.

“You did what you had to,” he tells him. “Simple as that. You didn't choose any of this. You’re not a bad person, Ty.”

Tyler reaches up to Josh’s wrist where it’s draped across his shoulder and hangs onto it like it’s holding him up. He’s looking at the earth beneath their feet.

“Want me to come back with you tonight?” Josh continues. He’s been thinking about it while digging; he’s really freaking reluctant to leave Tyler by himself. It’s not like either of them are gonna be able to sleep anyway. “I’ll help out with first aid if you like. We can order takeout and watch shit documentaries until you pass out.”

Tyler’s head drops sideways, like he’s curling into Josh’s chest. “You’re the best friend in the world,” he says brokenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do u think of Heathens i like it a Lot


	11. Chapter 11

_(15:08:49) Josh: I had to leave for my shift sorry! I called your work and told them u were sick, please sleep lots and lots. a bottle of water & the leftovers are by the bed. i’ll swing by after i finish (midnight) (ish) and I will bring BREAD and MILK and SOME KINDA FRUIT because seriously i am not sure how u are surviving on dry cornflakes and ranch dressing x_

_(16:26:22) Tyler: thanks mom._

_(16:32:15) Tyler: no for real thankyou. i’m hurting today but slept better than in forever. you don’t have to come round tonight but. if you do. then. I look forward to seeing you, friend._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((double update tonight as the last one was super short))

In the tense quiet of Tyler’s truck on the way here, Josh hadn’t known what possessed him, but now – tentatively treading a strange hallway and breathing softly through a cotton mask – his veins are alive with adrenaline. Tyler’s a few paces ahead; weightless, catlike. In one of the doorways up ahead, his fifth target is asleep. Josh can hear the snoring.

Perhaps it’s down to a bit of morbid curiosity, but Josh knows he asked to be here for Tyler’s sake, really. Since last week, he’s started feeling anxious, slimy knots in his stomach at night, knowing that at any given moment, Tyler could be killing, or dying, or arrested, or finally losing the scarce-as-shit sanity he has left. It’s the story he’s telling himself. The notion that witnessing a kill is sending wild, destructive thrills up and down his spine is a little harder to stomach.

Tyler looms, reaper-black, framed by the streetlit window at number five’s bedside. Josh has never seen his hands so steady as they swoop in, swift and gentle, to catch the man at the elbow and expose the pale hollow on its inside. The needle catches skin and slips in smoothly; the moment the chamber has gone dry, Tyler switches out the syringe and injects the chlorpromazine instead. There’s a twitch and a mumble of protest from the heap of blankets; Josh’s lungs tense up and he glances to Tyler nervously, but his eyes are steady and calm with focus behind the holes in his mask. A single, shivering dot of blood wells up behind the needle as it retracts. Tyler snaps the cap down over the needle, twists it free from the syringe tip, and silently places the whole lot in an airtight bag, packed with bubble wrap to stop the rattle. They slip back into the hallway to wait – Tyler sits against the skirting board, chewing his lower lip and watching the opposite wall in the almost-darkness. His thumb and crooked forefinger make the barest of sounds as they pick at one another. Josh can’t sit. He stands; resists the urge to pace.

The actual execution is quite anticlimactic. Josh watches Tyler straddle the guy’s waist and steadily wring the life from his neck, second by second, gasp by gasp, and he wonders if it’s merciful or disappointing how sluggishly the man on the bed responds with the drugs in his system. The heap of him gurgles, limbs jerking and pushing weakly, but Tyler’s thighs and hands have him pinned, and the movements slow to sad little twitches. His hands curl up in mid-air, claw-like, the way they do in zombie movies. Tyler breathes through his nose with his jaw tight, the muscles in his forearms shifting beneath their tattoos as he keeps up the pressure to the end. Everything, like everything else, eventually slides into stillness.

Tyler exhales heavily as he climbs off, his chest rising and falling, and he slumps to the floor with his back against the bedside table. His head tips back and his eyes slide closed with relief. Josh steps closer. Cautiously. There’s no need for silence any longer, but he feels as though one heavy footfall will shatter the moment and turn it sour. He needs to see it, though. He wants to witness this terrible thing that Tyler has done. That _he_ and Tyler have done.

He rounds the bed and, for the first time, properly sees the face of the man laying upon it. It’s slack and unfocused – not strictly peaceful – and there’s drool drying tacky on one of his cheeks. He looks sort of familiar. Josh frowns and tilts his head, pushing his mask up and away from his face with one hand.

When he figures out who the guy is, it hits him like a fucking truck. He hasn’t seen Liam in ages, but he’s known him for years. Six years, actually – they met at the late-September party. The one they hold every year; the one in the old warehouse. He specifically remembers this because Liam is the graduate who invented the Saltwater Game.

“One left,” Tyler murmurs from the floor, pulling off his own mask and gazing down at the cut-out face holes.

Josh can’t move. His breathing feels as though it’s shut down, like he’s the one that’s just been strangled. His heart’s hammering morse code into the backs of his ribs. He might actually throw up.

_“I’ll kill every son of a bitch that set that night in motion.”_

_“The driver of the car that hit ours turned out to be wasted at the time – drugs, not drink. Just came from a party. He ended up on life support which I had to sabotage.”_

_“Two to go. Important, those two. One of them handed this spiked drink to the driver.”_

_“Wish I could figure out who the last one was.”_

Josh swallows. It’s dry and painful.

“I know I’ve never asked before,” he croaks, still unable to take his eyes from Liam’s slackly-staring face, “but the night of the accident, what did this guy do?”

“A lot of the students have this dumb party before first semester, in that big abandoned building off the highway out north,” Tyler says from the floor. The way the light falls, his eyes are just big, black holes in his head, like the mask in his hands. “They play this game with the freshmen where they randomly hand drinks out. One of them’s nasty. Spiked, or worse, whatever. They made everyone in the other car play it and that’s why the driver was high. Number five invented the game.”

It’s almost a relief – for Josh to hear such concrete confirmation – and his eyes close. He knew it. He thinks, maybe, he’s not even that surprised.

“I’m your number six,” he says, quiet and clear.

He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t need to see the way Tyler flinches and stills his lungs, like each of the nerves beneath his skin have run cold.

“What?”

“I gave that kid the drink. I’ve been involved with the Saltwater Game since I was a freshman. I was at that party in the warehouse. I’m there _every_ year. I had no idea that it was my fault until now. Mine.” He exhales sharply. “Of course it’s mine.”

He lets his eyes open and Tyler’s just _staring_ , his expression unreadable.

“I’m the last person you have to kill,” Josh repeats.

Tyler stands so that they’re face to face, the movements of his body so deliberately, consciously controlled that they almost come across as artificial. It’s like every shred of him is focused on composure. It’s working everywhere except in his eyes, where understanding and agony dawn as one, and Josh can feel his heart splitting.

“Josh, just tell me what happened that night. Please. Start from the beginning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two chapters left! i can't believe we're over like 200 kudos this is insane. you're all so damn cool.
> 
> sorry in advance for dodging any questions in the comments by sending back photos of birds? I don't know when that became a thing but here it is, and it's here to stay.
> 
> also - look I know this is possibly lame idk - but i have a playlist for this fic, things I listen to writing it, that kind of thing? i also threw heathens on. idk if thats anyone's jam but i moved it over to spotify anyway in case youre feeling it. here's the link > https://open.spotify.com/user/chess_boxing/playlist/0HgqVRjkglMnyNf89fJ43z
> 
> take care friends x


	13. Chapter 13

_(21:39)_

_Just before climbing out of his car and into the dusty, weed-choked lot beside the warehouse, Josh makes the mistake of meeting his own eyes in the rear view mirror, and all the anxiety that he’s fought to suppress following today’s series of panic attacks flares up again. It shows, he thinks, freezing and scanning his own face closely. He can read the cues off like a script – in the raw little split he’s chewed into his lower lip, or in the twitching of his jaw, or in the way the muscles in his face feel like they just won’t sit right on the skull beneath them. He tests a smile at himself; spits it straight out like it tastes bad._

_Ugh._

_Look, he’s already three hours late, and he didn’t drive all the way out here to bail on the doorstep. He’s gonna do what he told himself on the bathroom floor – he’s gonna walk in with his shit vaguely together, he’s gonna get good and wasted, and he’s gonna have a blast. With his friends. His very cool friends, who he misses._

_He’s not been out in so long._

_Come on._

_It’s usually fine once you get out there._

_Breaking eye contact with himself, he pushes the door open. The bass of speakers inside the building thrums faintly through the earth beneath the soles of his shoes. It does more to psych him up than his self-directed pep talk was ever likely to – it’s a good rhythm, grounding and kinda exciting all at once, and he drags the plastic bags of drinks out of the passenger side footwell before nudging the door shut with his heel and crossing the lot. The sun’s already down, the pale blue strip on the horizon matching Josh’s hair, and he can see the faint flashing of lights coming through the warehouse’s structural splits and poorly-boarded up, cracked windows. A breeze plays across the fields, stirring dirt. It’s carrying the smell of cigarettes and pot, and he feels a twinge of fondness. Yeah. He’s grateful that he climbed off that bathroom floor. He’s gonna make tonight a good one._

|-/

_(00:47)_

_“Come on,” Tyler pleads, both of his hands gripping the lip of the open car window. “She’s not got insurance and can’t afford an ambulance. She’s-“_

_“I can’t help you,” the woman inside cuts him off. Her face does an awful, guilty twinge, like she wishes it was any other way than this. It’s bullshit, and it makes Tyler’s fingertips turn white against the glass. “Seriously, I’m sorry, but I can’t get blood on these seats. This car’s my living. Let go of the window, please.” Her tone goes sharp, like the glass edge to the creases of his fingers. “Sir.”_

_Tyler only lets go when the electronic window scrolls right up to the door frame and the Uber cab is pulling hastily away. He spits curses and stalks back to the sidewalk, pulling his phone from his pocket and crouching down at Daniela’s side. She’s shaking, red tea towels wrapped around her forearms._

_“Hey,” he tells her, rubbing one hand in circles between her shoulder blades as he unlocks his phone and flicks through his contacts. He’s shivering as bad as her, but his jacket’s draped across her shoulders. “It’s okay. Hang in there. You know anyone with a car?”_

_“Not around here.” Her teeth chatter as she talks. “Not this late. So sorry, Tyler.”_

_“No,” he says, flatly rejecting the apology. “Don’t you dare. Hold on, I’m gonna try the guy I lived with last year.”_

|-/

_(00:52)_

_Josh’s face hurts from laughing._

_“Saltwater?” he shouts, trying to half-cup a hand to his mouth without dropping one of the two drinks he’s holding._

_“What?!”_

_Josh and Mariam yell at each other over the speakers. Someone’s put the strobe on and it’s nigh-on-fucking-impossible to lip read, especially when it’s making them both laugh. Josh tries again, tapping his finger against the cup in his hand before leaning in as close as possible. He has to bend down a little; she’s tiny. Tiny and smiley, with neon green war-stripes painted across her cheeks, bright against her deep skin._

_“Saltwater! Yeah?”_

_“Wh- yeah!” she shouts back. “Yeah, hand it out!”_

_He peers into the colourless, odourless liquid in the cup. “I thought so,” he tries to tell her, but all she does is shrug and laugh some more, so he gives up and goes to find whoever the hell this drink belongs to. It’s weird, turning up so late that he missed pouring them out. He’s kinda in the dark. It was left on the corner of a table with the attached playing card pulled off, but he could tell from the little Sharpie skull on the side of the cup that it’s definitely part of the game. Someone always tries to ditch their cup. Mariam’s only confirmed what he suspects – that this is the traditional half-pint of saltwater. He’s just relieved that it’s not the Ace of Spades – the lethal one – that he’s in charge of reuniting with its rightful owner. That’s a responsibility he’s wa-a-ay too drunk to wanna deal with right now._

|-/

_(00:54)_

_“Look, Ty,” the voice comes down the line, kinda choppy from the shit signal. Tyler’s got the numb-white fingers of one hand jammed into the opposite ear so he can hear better. He’s biting at the inside of his cheek, pacing slightly on the sidewalk of the beat-up back street where Daniela lives. She’s crouched down on the floor beneath the black metal of the fire escape; it’s started to spit with rain, orange in the light. “You know me. Whenever you needed a ride down the psych centre or hospital or wherever, that’s cool, whatever, I drove you about. I don’t mind. But like – I don’t even know this girl. Diondra.”_

_“Daniela,” he snaps back, harsher than he knows he really should when he’s trying to call in a favour._

_There’s a frustrated sigh – it buzzes against his ear. “We don’t even live together anymore, man, you know?”_

_“I know, I just – I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t really, really-“_

_“And anyway, dude, it’s Saturday night! I’m, like, three beers deep here. I’m not driving anywhere tonight. Sorry.”_

_Tyler grits his teeth and turns away, eyes squeezing shut, as though reeling from a punch. Desperate disappointment bubbles up his throat. Acidic. “I’m – you know what, you can go to hell,” he spits, and stabs his finger at the screen to hang up. He laces his fingers together, braces them at the back of his neck – behind his head – and just stares at the floor for a moment, letting the frustration and rage wash over him. Just breathing._

_“Guessing no luck?” Daniela ventures, half-laughing._

_“No luck,” he breathes out, deflated._

_They just look at each other for a moment, feeling lost, and wronged, and reminded of bitter, deep unfairness in the world. Daniela looks so tired._

_“I know who we could call,” Tyler eventually says._

|-/

_(01:13)_

_“Ethan!” Josh calls, taking him by the shoulder. It’s slightly quieter up this end of the warehouse floor, where most of the kids are smoking and taking turns on beat-up couches dragged in from the dump._

_“Josh, hey, man!” Ethan exclaims, but it turns into a groan and the group around them whoop as Josh pushes the Sharpied cup into his hand._

_“Nice try,” Josh tells him, nudging their shoulders together playfully and draining his own drink._

_“Oh my god, I hate you,” Ethan groans, but it doesn’t dampen how hard he and the others are laughing as he peers into the red cup. “What the fuck is this? This has gotta be the saltwater one, right?”_

_“Yeah, pretty sure!” Josh answers, with that singularly slurred enthusiasm that only the wasted truly achieve._

_Ethan grimaces. “Aw, fuck.”_

_He tips it back swiftly as possible – quite respectably, actually – and half the friends around him lose their shit laughing as he splutters his way through it, throat bobbing from where the liquid’s pouring down his throat. Josh is just heading back out to let Mariam know that justice has been served when Ethan calls back:_

_“Dude, that wasn’t even salty?!”_

_“No way!” Josh leans back into the group. “Shit. Man, maybe you got lucky? What did it taste like? Just-?”_

_“Just straight up water!”_

_“Somebody up there likes you,” Josh remarks, and heads back to the busier, chaotic, flashing half of the warehouse. His head’s buzzing pleasantly and it’s becoming a challenge to think totally straight. He was planning to go tell Mariam, he thinks. Or he was gonna refill his drink. Yeah. Whatever. He’s gonna do both._

|-/

_(01:32)_

_Cam and Hayley live almost an hour out of the city – once upon a time, they all met on the same group therapy programme together – but they drop everything and make it in thirty-five minutes flat. The shitty Nissan that pulls up coughs as it parks, the rear door kicked open from the inside almost before it’s stopped._

_“Hey, guys, get in!”_

_Tyler helps Daniela to the back seat, his hands skating over the seatbelt anxiously before swinging into the front passenger seat himself._

_“What’s up,” he breathes out, slapping his hand into Cameron’s palm over the handbrake. “You guys are life savers. God damn Uber cab wouldn’t take us.”_

_“It’s cool, Tyler, take a couple breaths. Hi, Dani.”_

_“I owe you like five, maybe six drinks,” she replies, deadpan. The light atmosphere goes some way toward settling Tyler’s nerves, strained as it may be. He takes Cam’s advice and breathes deep, counting the strokes of the windshield wipers in the cold drizzle. Hayley – who’s in the back seat – quickly scoots over to the middle._

_“Trigger warning,” she sings, peeling back the oozing towels. Daniela winces. Her forearms are properly split; a real nasty job, gaping, with the tell-tale yellow showing through the red in places where she’s made it to the fat. “Damn, Ramirez, you weren’t fucking about. Gonna have some rad scars!”_

_“Tyler, I can’t believe you thought this was gonna upset her,” Daniela calls forward to where Tyler’s buckling into the passenger seat. Hayley laughs, light and refreshing, and carefully wraps the towels back up. Her fingers come away with rusty smears. She rubs them into her jeans and wraps an arm around Daniela’s shoulders._

_“Don’t you worry, babe, we’ve always got your back. Step on it, Cam.”_

_“Step! On! It!” Tyler repeats, clapping his hands on his knees with each word. Cameron cuts into the traffic, ignores the sound of a horn from somewhere behind them, and they speed east toward the closest ER._

|-/

_(01:35)_

_Josh will never remember the tail end of the party. He doesn’t remember Ethan’s blown-black pupils as he assures him that he’s good to drive: that he’s only had a beer or two; that it was five hours ago. He doesn’t remember drunkenly pressing his forehead into the rain-cold of the car window frame as he offers everyone inside couches for the night. He doesn’t remember watching taillights blur as they recede, bleeding away into black._

|-/

_(01:48)_

_Tyler will never forget the way the inside of a car goes headlamp-white for an instant before impact. He remembers the red spider-web pattern that Hayley’s forehead made in the windshield, even though she was sitting in the back. He remembers the crunch of glass underfoot as though it’d been raining diamonds on the tarmac, and he remembers the way metal can fold like silk. He remembers three covered stretchers in a line on the ground, flashing blue, red, blue, red, blue._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey I finally have a twenty one pilots tumblr and it is here! please come say hi! i barely know Anyone and u r all rly nice
> 
> http://and-so-are-you.tumblr.com/


	14. Chapter 14

“We all heard that Ethan’s life support equipment failed, a week after the party,” Josh says, his lips feeling numb. “Couldn’t believe it. There was that lawsuit.”

“Number two on the list was a girl named Ro, who studied a year above Daniela,” Tyler continues. His lips are moving on automatic, his eyes trained right through the back of Josh’s head, as though he doesn’t really want to _see_ him at all. “She made her life hell – she’d pretend to be her friend, then hurt her, then apologise so she could do it over and over again, until she burned her final art project the night it was due. End of the year.  She’s the reason Daniela tried to kill herself in the first place, zero doubt. I slit her wrists and left her locked in a bathroom to make it look like she took herself out the exact same way she nearly took Dani. Then I found the Uber driver who wouldn’t take us, booked her cab late at night, and followed her home. After that, I killed my old roommate, the one who wouldn’t drive us to hospital. _That_ messed me up. I mean, I had to do it, but – God. You and I, Josh; we met the night I buried his body. You know the rest. And,” he breathes, “I just want it over. I’ve wanted nothing more than for it to end for _so long_ , but _now. You._ ”

He puts his palms together as though praying and then opens them, like wings unfolding, in a gesture towards where Josh is standing. A burst of laughter escapes Tyler’s lips, bitter and coughed up, like a sob.

“Anyone but you,” he pleads, almost too quiet to hear.

“I’m so sorry,” Josh murmurs back, his feet automatically bringing him a couple of steps closer. His expression is despairing and drawn, eyes wide and dark with sorrow. Pity, even. Lips twitching where he’s struggling to hold it together, Josh offers up both of his forearms, the insides exposed, and takes Tyler’s hands in his own. “Ever since the last Saltwater Game, all I’ve wanted is for everything to be over, too.”

“No,” Tyler moans, looking down at where the blue lines stand out in the fragile dips of Josh’s elbows.

“Believe me. Ty. _Tyler_ , look at me. Listen to me. This is what I deserve.”

|-/

_Brendon and Ryan are making out against the graffitied wall at the other end of the warehouse’s rear corridor, messy and rough. “Pretty gay, you guys,” Josh calls as he approaches._

_Brendon pulls away just long enough to answer, his lips flushed. “You want in?”_

_“You wish,” Josh slurs back with a grin. He kisses the tips of his fingers and drags them across both of their fused faces as he passes, swinging clumsily around the door frame and into the bathrooms. The battery-operated lamp in the corner barely produces enough light to piss by. As he stands at the urinal, Josh peers unsteadily at his reflection in the cracked, rust-spotted mirror before him. He looks totally wrecked but also kinda good. Feeling pretty great about himself today, for once. Someone’s smeared red make-up – hell, it might even be fucking lipstick for all he can tell right now – across his eyes and they were right, it looks sick with his hair. He’s gonna wear make up every day. He’s gonna buy a fuckin’ palette._

_He’s just about to turn away when he notices that the single stall behind him – spray-painted to shit, held together with actual, literal duct tape in places – is occupied. He crouches a little and peers under the wrecked door because he’s drunk and it feels like the thing to do. There’s someone really slumped up against the toilet. Like they’re puking, except he hasn’t heard a thing._

_“Yo,” he calls in. “You alright in there?”_

_He approaches the door tentatively, swaying a little, listening hard over the pounding music from the main warehouse floor. Nada. Silence._

_Okay, well, firstly, this guy might need help, and secondly, there’s only one stall, and he’s blocking that motherfucker up. Josh pushes experimentally at the door – the lock’s mostly broke anyway – and it gives way easily with a well-placed shove._

|-/

“It was Jake, right there, in the stall, and straight away I knew it was the bleach drink. He’d drawn the Ace of Spades earlier and I hadn’t seen him since then. I guess we were all too wasted to keep track of who was supposed to keep an eye on him, and he just tipped the whole thing back. Pretty sure it was supposed to be me who stopped it going too far. I mean, ninety percent sure it was me.”

Josh hasn’t lowered his arms all the way through the story. Tyler watches them as he listens, contrasting the vibrant, twisting colours of the ink on one forearm with the beautifully pale canvas of the other. He imagines splitting both through with the knife in his bag and actually _shudders_.

“I tried to tell people,” Josh continues, “but I was freaking out – and then, someone just ran out into the party, screaming that a guy had died, and everyone _bailed_. I mean, the _whole_ party emptied in about three minutes while I was in the bathroom trying to bring Jake round one last time. It was chaos. Everyone was drunk or high or both – and the _Chinese whispers_ – later, I heard someone say some dude was off his head with a gun. So. I just had Jake’s body – still dribbling pink blood everywhere, Jesus – and I loaded him up in the car, and I took him to the forest. And that was that. That stupid fucking game and I killed everyone. Last year, Ethan, and Daniela and Cameron and Hayley. Almost you. This year, Jake, Ro, Liam. The others.” Josh’s shoulders raise in a dead-eyed shrug and he sticks his forearms out even further. “And I want you to finish your list.”

“Josh-“

“I won’t fight you. All you need to do is inject me. One quick scratch and we both go free.”

“I can’t,” Tyler whispers. He looks terrified.

“You _need_ to.”

Josh holds his gaze until Tyler slowly slips one of the pre-loaded backup syringes from its pouch inside his jacket. Josh helps to guide his movements, gentle and encouraging, as he finds the vein and lines the needle up. Tyler’s rigid – brittle – but allows himself to be led. Josh’s heartbeat flutters frantically, as though desperate for his ribs to be unlocked.

Tyler shoots him an agonising, unsure look, pleading with wide, despairing brown eyes.

“It’s okay,” he nods, not bothering to try for a smile. “I’m ready, I promise.”

It’s reverent, the delicate way that Tyler holds his elbow steady and gently, gently, _gently_ eases the solution down the needle. Josh’s veins rush with cold from the injection site outwards, creeping up his arms and spreading across his chest, his lungs collapsing with a rushed-out sigh. A couple of tense minutes pass without dramatic effect, but then everything begins to dull at once, like the lights turning down before a movie starts.

“Woah,” he murmurs. Tyler’s expression is pained with concern as he unsteadily helps Josh to the floor, kneeling opposite his suddenly boneless frame.

“You’re the only one who could ever have saved me,” Tyler says, his voice hollow and haunted as he watches Josh come apart. “Course it’s gotta be you. Of _course_.”

It’s so quiet, like so many of the spaces they’ve shared before, and Josh can do nothing but let the image of the room before him slide out of focus as his chest heaves. Everything’s sluggish. Everything’s okay.

“Once,” Tyler stammers softly, “you told me I wasn’t a bad person.”

Josh tries to meet his eyes, but all he meets is carpet. He lets his eyelids close instead and nods – barely – breathing raggedly from his slump against the bedframe. He thinks he can feel tears. He thinks he can feel _something._

“Told me I wasn’t,” Tyler repeats, trailing off.

Josh can hear him stuttering with his hands to his mouth, fingertips brushing his lips as they move.

“Hate it,” Tyler whispers.

He’s low, down by Josh’s face.

“ _Hate it,_ hate it so much.”

When Josh manages to raise his head, Tyler’s all out-of-focus, swaying slightly, one hand in an outstretched tremble until it meets Josh’s shoulder. The connection where they meet is steady and sure, but then Tyler’s fingers creep like spider legs along his collarbone, his fingerprints dragging and leaving a stuttered, hesitant trail toward his throat. They rest there in a loose stranglehold. When Josh breathes in, he feels them shift against the hard column in the centre of his neck. He lets his face relax and prepares to let himself sink into that warm black.

Every knocked-back shot-glass antidepressant; every mark he’s held a tissue to until it clots; every sleepless hour watching dawn dilute the colour of the ceiling.

Here it comes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tyler’s lungs are shaky and uncertain even now, with his palm resting where it fits perfectly to Josh’s throat. He’s not squeezing. Josh can hear him crying. Real crying; weeping.

“S’okay,” he slurs out, flopping out a hand. It slaps limply to Tyler’s knee. Tyler grasps it with his free hand; Josh can feel its pulse where their fingers are wrapped up together. “S’right.”

Each of Tyler’s inhalations are approaching gasps, drawn up into his lungs rough, like liquid sucked through a needle too fast. His head hangs and his fingers clench until Josh wheezes, hurt and dizzy. Then they release again. Then they tighten, then they release. Tighten, release.

“I don’t wanna,” he whispers frantically, over and over. “I don’t wanna. I don’t wanna. I can’t. I don’t wanna.”

Josh tries to press his neck further into the snug fit of the palm wrapped around it, his head dropping its weight forward over the slender, chopping-block gap between Tyler’s finger-and-thumb. He expects pressure at his throat, but instead he feels a quiet sob against the crown of his bowed head. Tyler’s nose is buried into the red tangle of Josh’s hair, breathing desperately into it. He’s rocking back and forth, swaying them both. When Josh registers the faint press of lips to his forehead, he blinks his eyes open sluggishly, stupidly; the carpet swells closer and further. Tyler’s thumb draws gentle, deliberate strokes into the side of his neck.

“I think God hates me,” he breathes.

“Hm,” Josh manages. It’s almost funny, apart from the bit where it’s fucking tragic.

Tyler’s fingers slip from where he’s holding Josh’s hand to touch the pulse point in his wrist, where they linger before his thumb slides into the hollow of Josh’s palm. Josh squeezes back as much as he can. He feels Tyler press their foreheads together. Each of his soft sobs travel across the point where their skulls meet, and Josh’s limp body twitches against the bed.

_On the seventh day, God rested._

“I can’t do it,” Tyler bursts out between gritted teeth. A tear tumbles down his cheek. “Josh. I can’t. I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m not doing it.”

With a surge of movement, he pulls Josh closer, flinging both arms around his shoulders and burying his face in the strong, solid curve of his neck. Josh registers the warmth of him; the weight. He can’t get his arms to hug back, so he lets himself slump into the embrace, all rough from the shaky, desperate convulsions in Tyler’s chest. They rock back and forth there on the ugly, threadbare maroon carpet and Tyler sobs it all out, squeezing tight like he’s just dragged Josh from a river, apologising and promising between hiccups. Josh makes gentle noises in the back of his throat and hopes they sound forgiving.

“You’re going to be so mad at me when this wears off,” Tyler laughs unsteadily, pulling back for a moment to wipe tears away with the heel of his hand. “Damn it, I shouldn’t have even injected you. I’m so sorry, Josh. It must be awful in there.”

It _is_ kind of awful, Josh muses, but all he wants is to collapse against Tyler again, so he sinks heavily into the other man’s chest, and closes his eyes.

He must have passed out, because the next thing he hears is faint birdsong as Tyler shifts his weight, hauling him into a different position.

Josh licks his lips and attempts speech. It’s shit. A mumble. He coughs and tries again.

“It’s okay,” Tyler hushes him. “My leg’s just dead. You’re really heavy, dude.”

“Should go,” he manages, mouth twitching slightly upward, his cheek squashed into the flat, bony plane at the very centre of Tyler’s chest, right where his ribs all meet. “Should, y’know. Bury him.”

“Oh, sure, yeah, because I can definitely carry _two_ bodies out to the truck without dropping one of you down the stairs,” he fires back, stretching out his numb leg along the carpet with a wince and experimentally flexing his toes. “Give it a bit, at least till you can stand up. We can get away with it. Sun stays down so late these days, anyway.”

It’s a long handful of hours. Josh counts the passing of time by the slowing of Tyler’s heartbeat against his ear, and then by the hiss of cars that pass, scarce, in the rain-wet street outside. His head’s killing him and eyes sting, red-rimmed, as he tries to train his gaze from object to object without the room swimming. His mouth is sawdust-dry, save for a couple of scattered instances where it floods with saliva and a wave of nausea. The second time it happens, he’s faintly aware of a groan slipping past his lips; Tyler’s fingers tangle through his hair, stroking slowly until the dizziness phases out again. By the time he’s coming back to himself, the sky is still deeply dark through the thin, scratchy curtains at the window.

“How’s it going in there?” Tyler asks. He leans over, shifting their bodies so that he can check up on Josh’s zoned-out zombie face.

“Uh,” Josh says. “Hmm. Mm.” _Testing; one, two_. “O… kay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It’s less shaky this time. Less of an experiment. He manages to hold Tyler’s gaze in focus for a long moment; at first, the expression watching back at him is exhausted, but then it lights up, the way faces do as they welcome a person home from a long, long journey.

“C’mon. Should move.”

They heave Josh into a sitting position, where he anchors himself up tight to the metal bedframe posts, so he can’t drift away. As he raises his eyes, he sees Tyler’s hand outstretched to pull him upright, and Josh’s eyes widen with a striking flash of recall – him, just over two months ago, leaning and aching against the fresh dirt walls of Jake’s grave, faced with a stranger’s gloved hand reaching out to lift him onto the surface.

Josh and Tyler’s hands clasp firm, and – despite a pointed absence of grace or confidence – he staggers to his feet. They don’t give way beneath him. Okay. He falters a little; Tyler catches him at the elbows before he can stumble and impale himself on the bed frame.

“Hey. _Hey._ Josh.” Tyler’s eyes flit back and forth across his friend’s face, both palms pressing tight and secure to either of Josh’s upper arms. “You tell me if you feel worse, you hear me?”

“I will,” Josh answers hoarsely. “Really, though. I feel fine. I feel… good.”

Tyler’s face relaxes; a smile breaks through and he grips both of Josh’s shoulders in a close squeeze. His eyes are bloodshot-tired but bright, and his grip doesn’t tremble an inch. Opposite him, Josh looks _worse_. His skin’s sickly with sweat, and his hair’s plastered in damp, cherry-red cascades across his forehead and the nape of his neck – but he smiles back, wide as he can, and breathes easier than he has in months.

“Alright,” Tyler says. “Time to bury a body, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, seriously thanks if u made it this far. Getting to share this whole thing and talk with some of you has made this month a real good one. i’m gonna be working on a new (probably way gayer) series asap, but till then, if u wanna chat, please do say hi in a comment or something!! bc I would love to get to know more of you. x
> 
> ((reposting links so no one including me ever has to go digging for them: my tumblr and the fic playlist.))


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